Cop Tales

Today I got pulled over for the very first time. Today I got pulled over when I wasn't speeding, wasn't swerving or driving erratically, and didn't have all of my doors open. Not, of course, that these are things I do routinely, but the point is: I wasn't doing anything wrong. "Whatever," I say to myself as the lights go on behind me and I pull to the side of the curb, "maybe one of my brake lights is out". This would be a logical reason to be pulled over. I sit, turn off the engine, and roll down my window.

"License and registration." He says. I'm surprised by how young he is. He looks to be in his mid to late twenties. I didn't know cops were allowed to be that young. I fish out my license from my wallet and the registration from the glove compartment, while experiencing a brief moment of terror that I won't be able to find the registration since this isn't my car and I've never had reason to look for it. Triumphant, I return from my bended over position with registration in hand. He takes the paperwork from me and goes to sit in his car.

"Hmm," I think. In all my experience with cops, which is based entirely from the time I was in the passenger seat when Dad got pulled over for speeding on our way back home from visiting our grandparents and from various cop shows on television, they don't tend to take the paperwork back to the car unless you are in Big Trouble. Having complete confidence in the ability of Hollywood television to broadcast an accurate portrayal of the real world (snort) I begin to worry. What was I doing as I passed the corner where the cop car was sitting? Maybe the light caught my car in such a way that it appeared that I was snorting cocaine off of the steering wheel! What if he pulls me in for questioning about the drug ring? I know nothing about the drug ring, but he'd never believe me because he just witnessed me doing hard drugs as I drove down the parkway. My only hope is that they'll run a drug test before they question me so that they'll know that I've never so much as looked at cocaine and wouldn't know how to snort it if my life depended on it. Do you even snort cocaine?

My mind wanders as the cop sits in his car. Man he's been there for an eternity!

Finally he comes back. He leans in the window. He opens his mouth to speak. I brace for the words "get out of the car" which I know will be followed by handcuffing and being shoved in the back of the cop car. I want to scream, "I swear to God I don't know anything about the drug ring!"

"I'm sorry," he says, "but this really doesn't look like you. Do you have any other identification?"

Oh.

"Well, I have my student card. That's the only thing that has my picture on it."
"Alright, let me see that."

I hand him the student card after fishing it out of my wallet. He looks at it for 0.2 seconds.

"Oh yeah," he says, "that's you all right. Hey! You go to that university! My girlfriend goes to that university! Amanda Summers, you know her?"
"Um, no, I don't think so. Sorry."
"She's in sociology. You know anyone in sociology?"
"Well yes, I do."
"You should ask them if they know her."
"Oh, okay, I'll do that."

He stands there smiling brightly at me for a moment, lost in what I can only assume are memories of his girlfriend. He then snaps to.

"Here you go," he says, handing me all the various pieces of identification back, "you're free to go, but did anyone ever tell you that you really don't look twenty?"

Cell Phone Wonderment

One of our neighbours periodically appears on the street with his cell phone where upon he wanders up and down in front of our house and his, talking away. This happens just about every day, and I imagine that the point is so that he doesn't have to be overheard by those living within his house. The question then is, does he not realize that then everyone on the street can overhear his conversations?

Phone Numbers

Ontario has gone to 10 digit dialing, or if not already, then it is happening soon. People keep complaining, saying things like, "I don't want to have to remember another 3 digits". I have this to say to these people:

You don't have to remember another 3 digits, idiot.

You live in the same city, so every phone call will be preceded by the 3 digit area code. You don't need to remember that it's 416 or 613 or 519 for every individual number, you just have to remember what city they live in when you're dialing and precede it with the appropriate area code. This is exactly the same as before, only now instead of simply knowing that they live in 613 and you live in 613, you have to actually dial the 613.

Example:
"I remember that my neighbour Joan's number is 555-4793."
Dial: 613 (automatically) followed by 555-4793.

Why is this a big deal?

Cute Games

Today I woke up with major back pain (this is a semi-regular problem) as well as a slight fever and stomach pain. Fun fun, eh? I was determined I wasn't going to give in to the illness, so I went out into the backyard and pruned the lilac bush that has been trying to turn into a tree and thereby getting in the way of the clothes line. Having defeated its efforts, I moved on to pruning the grown-wild branches of the Manitoba maples that are only allowed to continue growing in the yard because they are holding up the falling down fence and offer some pitiful amounts of shade in our rather tree-less backyard.

Having done this, I had to sit down. Then I had lunch, and then I decided it was time to give in to the coming sickness (it's pouring rain outside anyways), so I played Pikmin for a while. That game is so much fun!! You play this lost space man: He can control these little plant-animal hybrid things (pikmin, like the thing running behind him) and run around breaking down walls, building bridges, growing more pikmin, and finding the pieces of your spaceship. It's also aimed at people significantly younger than I, so I'm having very little difficulty. This is exactly the kind of cute game I like. It's not completely mindless, due to the puzzles, there are no scary graphic bad guys, and they make cute little noises when you pick them, throw them, or leave them behind (awww).

Now I'm off to meet Emma and Mum for the gym, and hear all about how Emma's trip to Canada's Wonderland with her school band went.

Rings

I'm watching tv and this ring store commercial came on voicing loudly their abilities to create the perfect engagement ring for everybody and anyone. Then the owner comes on, and right before the commercial ends, and says, "Our customers always come back". Now correct me if I'm wrong, but ideally, shouldn't someone only have to buy an engagement ring once? So either the guys out there are picking the wrong ring and the girls are sending them back, or the rings are cursed and the engagements never stick.

Hmm. Okay, I know what they really meant was that they come back for other rings for other reasons, but when your commercial is all about engagement rings, don't you think you would drop a line like that from the script? Oh the funny.

Germy

You know, there are some things that I just don't understand. Some serious things like famine, poverty, war, and murder. Some horrible things like that, which happen all the time, yet no one would chose to be a victim of any one of these things. There are also some smaller, less serious things that I don't understand. I don't understand, for example, these things:Know what it is? Give you a hint. It goes on one of these, like this one made for kids:

Toilet lid covers. They just baffle me. My old roommates had them, and I hated it. Explain this one to me people, in a society where we are so germ-phobic that there are hundreds of cleaning products available at any given grocery store, where television commercials boast of their product's 99.9% germ killing capabilities, and where earnest mommies disinfect and bandage the smallest scrape on their child, how on earth do we tolerate these things?

I mean, of all place to put something soft and absorptive? The toilet??? If anything in the house is taboo, anything not to touch, anything to wash thoroughly after coming in close proximity to, anything to surround with shiny, easily cleaned plastic and ceramic, this thing would be it. Just think of the disgusting things swimming around in these toilet lid covers. I hated having to touch the one in the apartment. Certainly, my roommates were far more slovenly than most people and theirs was probably more germ infested than the average, but still, the fact of the matter is that they creep me out. Am I alone on this?

Gilmore Girls Overload

Having just completed watching approximately five hours of the Gilmore Girls (yes, I know, I have no life) I have come to two conclusions. Number one: Season Five is by far my favourite season. Number two: I love Logan Huntzburger. I mean love him. If he was real, I would hunt him down and marry him tomorrow. I mean sure, he started off as a bit of a twit, but he's smart and funny and witty, never mind absolutely gorgeous, and he's got that little bit of self-deprecation along with a twinge of ego that I seem to find endlessly attractive in a man. Slight pot shot at my own judgment here. A friend of mine in Guelph recently laughed at me for being currently without male companionship saying that I hadn't managed to find the right mixture of narcissistic, drug-addicted, committment-phob. Sad, but not entirely false. At least I can laugh about it, right?

Anyways, I love Logan, and I want one. Jackie, Fitzy, get on that for my birthday. You've got a good 6 months.

Books

Just a quick note to everyone out there. Dallas brought to my attention this wonderful project run by the Dewey Donation System aiming to rebuild the libraries destroyed by hurricane Katrina. I hope you all take a minute to check it out and think about supporting this great cause.

Homes

Earlier this week while cleaning out my closet (scary, scary task) I found a large sketch book. This is strange, considering the fact that my sketching abilities only go about as far as stick men. I opened it and I was greeted not by sketches, but by glued in pictures of furniture. I was overcome by a wave of memories. Don't you love when that happens?

Around the time that I was 14 I had been dragged away to a cottage on a trip that, for some reason or another, I wasn't feeling very enthusiastic about, and to occupy my time I had torn apart an Ikea catalogue, cutting out pictures of things that I liked. I then arranged them into pages for different rooms in the house that I would one day own. I remember the house clearly. I had drawn it out, planning the size and the shape of everything, and had even done some rudimentary drawings of the floor plans.

As I sat on the floor of my bedroom and turned the pages of the sketch book, admiring the collection, I began to remember all the various homes that I have envisioned for myself over the years. During the time that I was interested by - no, really obsessed with - dolphins I was going to have a small home with a white picket fence on a quiet road just up from the sea in Halifax. When I grew out of the dolphins and developed a taste for architecture I was going to have a penthouse loft apartment with an open roof balcony and a black marble kitchen. Later it was a standard four bedroom home decorated in pastel colours and with the country cottage decor feel to it.

It's funny how much time I've spent over the years planning out my perfect home, and now that I am so close to that huge step into adulthood of setting up my own place (only a year or so down the road), the idea positively terrifies me. I do know where I want that place to be, and what I want it to look like, and what I want to fill it with, but the knowledge that the thing that I've thought about for so long is finally so close is almost paralyzing. I suppose that everyone must feel this way and that I'll feel much better about it when I'm at the time to start looking, find the place, and take the plunge, but right now it's a positive antinomy. (Am I using that word right, Mum?)

Licensed Baked Goods

This morning I took Adam to get his G1, which is the equivalent of a Learner's Permit, basically. He can now drive as long as the person sitting in the passenger's seat is a qualified driver with at least 4 years of driving experience. I also booked my final driving test that I've been putting off doing for a full year now. August 15th is the date.

While at the Ministry of Transportation and Licensing Bureau, I randomly ran into one of the girls I knew from high school. "Haley?" she screams across the foyer. Okay, she didn't really scream, she just has one of those loud carrying voices. My reply? "What the h*ll?" I was so surprised to see her. I can't say it was an unpleasant surprise, but she and I haven't been close since grade 10, nigh on 5 years ago now, and although we're both on each others msn, we haven't bothered to talk to each other in probably about a year. Generally the conversations had become her talking about her latest boy related issue, and me making tut-tut noises. I guess we just grew out of...out of what? Out of each other?

Now I've got Date Squares baking in the oven for the church pot luck lunch that's on Sunday. We're all supposed to bring a main dish and a desert, enough to feed our family. Since Emma is at a friend's cottage, the total church goers are myself and Grampa, so no matter what we bring will be too much. It is so darn hard to cook for two people. I guess that's kind of the point of these things though: having too much food for everyone. I was going to get Emma to make smartie (like an M&M, but Canadian and Better) chip cookies, but I forgot that she won't be there. Too bad.

Better rescue my squares.

An Afternoon of Cats

Rumble and Malika decide that it's just too much of a glorious day to stay inside. They have to go out, and they are loud and demanding about it.
Rumble will wait ever so patiently (not) while Malika gets dressed up for the occasion in her harness.

Milliseconds after the door is opened a hair, Rumble is outside on the deck, checking out the lilac .
Malika suns herself approximately 2 cm from the back door. She's being brave, but not that brave.
Just a few minutes later and she's feeling brave enough to sit in the grassy-dirt, but wait, what is sneaking up on her from the top left corner??
A Rumble! And bam he's on top of her, biting her neck and flipping his tail. (No they are not engaging in intimacies, they're just wrestling, you sick minded people.)
Malika just isn't as into the wrestling as Rumble would like her to be.
She's far to involved with enjoying the feel of weeds rubbing on her fur as she flounders in the yard.
Rumble knows when he's beaten, so he finds a new friend to play with: a stick.
*Note: This happened yesterday. He is not outside playing in the dirt with that wound of his!

Return from the Vet

Rumble has returned, and seems generally unperturbed. He's so laid back. He's still a little woozy from the anesthetic and is wobbling around the house a bit, but other than that, he's right as rain. I tried to get him to sit still for a picture, so I could show you all what it looked like, but he was uncooperative. As you can see, he looks just fine.Except for this:
It looks fairly dramatic, but in reality it's pretty clean. The purple-blue parts you are seeing are the stitches, and most of that red part to the left of the centre is just a scrape. But phew! My poor cat!

Clutzy Cat

Rumble, my poor little guy, is a mite accident prone, me thinks. I began to have this idea when he first, as a very young kitten, managed to pull an entire cake off of the counter, smashing plate and cake all over everything. This idea was then confirmed when he smashed his knuckle on something and destroyed his claw on the one paw (it has since regrown healthily), and now my belief in this idea has been reaffirmed once more.

Rumble came in the house last night with a GIANT BULLET HOLE in the side of him. No, wait, upon closer inspection it looks as though he has fallen off of the fence and caught his side, right below his shoulder blade, on the corner of a post. The result is a long scrape about 10 cm (4 inches) long culminating in a puncture hole about the size of a quarter. There were no copious amounts of blood, just a pretty red ugly spot that he wouldn't stop licking.

This morning he is at the vet, where he will get cleaned and stitched, and be back home again this afternoon.

Song in My Head

You may be right I may be crazy
But it may just be a lunatic you're looking for
Turn out the lights
Don't try to save me
You may be wrong, for all I know
But you may be right

Oh Billy Joel, I love your music, but please, get out of my head so I can sleep. This song has been running through my head ever since we stopped for a coffee pit stop in Kingston and it was playing. I sang/hummed along and quietly tapped my toe as we stood in line. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy this song. I got many a funny look from truckers, I must say.

My Food, Mine!

Those of you who have children, or siblings, or have even ever spent a meal with a family with young children will know what I'm talking about here.

Food tastes better off of Mum's plate. Or Dad's plate. Somehow, when food is served to a parent, and you eat it, it tastes better. Or, at least, that's the philosophy of children. Apparently it's the opinion of certain peers of mine that it also tastes better off of the plate of a friend, and they feel free to steal it without any comment or apology. Now, granted, I don't mind at all if my close friends take my food. Heck, I've been known to steal things from Fitzy. Ooh fries, yum! Stolen! This is a behaviour that I save for those that I am truly close to, and those I feel comfortable with. It is not something that I do to someone I see maybe once a week and have never had any kind of meaningful, bonding conversation or time with. It just strikes me as rude. Am I wrong here?

In my child psychology course we talked about this phenomena with children. Children are biologically programmed to have a preference for food that their parents eat. (No joke!) This teaches them what is safe to eat, what is tasty, and what might kill them. This is why young babies stare intently while you munch down, why you can convince a one year old to eat mushed peas by pretending to eat them, and why your two year old won't eat the peas on his own plate but won't keep his hands off of yours.

So I ask, is this casual acquaintance of mine just rude, or is it just a sign that they've never quite grown up?

Frustration!

Just when I thought I was getting the hang of this HTML thing! I had some training way back in high school, but it's a challenge to get back on top of it enough to do this editing. There's a lot of experimental "let's try taking this out ... OH CRAP!! PUT IT BACK-PUT IT BACK!!! phew".

Today I decided to change the colors, easy enough, right? Well somehow in the process of doing that I deleted my comment section. Bah! Then I had to remember my password to haloscan and reinstall it, which didn't work the first four times. Then I noticed it had reset all my links. Grr. Both problems are all worked out now.

At long last, here we have it. The new blog, for now, until I think of something else I want on here. I have these things to say:

• The rose icon on the side is credited to Jackie and her wonderful photography skills.
• Jackie, you can't possibly hate all the pictures of you on the header, you took most of them and you're gorgeous. Goof.
• If anything doesn't work, for the love of pete, tell me.
  

Weekend Away

I'm in university town for the weekend. I wrote my child psychology final last night. Man was that easy. The midterm was way harder than that. I circled all the answers (multiple choice, hurrah), transferred the answers to the answer sheet, double checked it twice, and was still done in an hour.

Saw Fitzy yesterday, which was oh so much fun. I think I might have talked his ear off for the first couple of hours. I just had all these things that I had to talk to him about and my mind was going a mile and minute. It was kind of funny cause I could see his face all like "wow, does she ever slow down?" and trying not to laugh at me. He succeeded, mostly.

Now I think I might wander down to the park and see the sights. While walking to my exam yesterday I was struck by the fact that I love my campus. I mean, just love it. It's small, sure, but it's cozy and friendly, and I know where everything is except for the cursed business building with it's maze of corridors.

I reworked my schedule for next year. Registration for us fourth year students starts Monday morning (12:01 am). I'm confident I'll get all my classes. It is, after all, only the fourth year students that can register then, third years (like Fitzy, haha) have to wait another week, and second years a week after that. Oh the luxury of seniority.

For those who are interested, it looks like I will be taking:

Sociology of Family
Contemporary Theory and Ethnography (Anthropology)
Women and Development
Tourists, Tourism and the Globe
Girls, Women, and Popular Culture
Medieval Outlaws: Romance and Record
Peoples of Latin America
Children's Literature

The first two are full year courses.

It's a curse, I tells ya.

This morning I got up and looked in the mirror and was surprised to notice that my right breast seemed smaller. What’s up with that? There has always been a slight discrepancy (I know this is normal) but today it looked like a full cup size, at least! Ah ha! I think, maybe it’s just that I’m losing weight, and it’s draining out of that side faster, or something. After all, it is normally that area that gains and loses first. I decide to measure myself to check it out.

I measure on the ribs, 30. That’s about standard. I wear a 34, so I wasn’t expecting that number to change. Next up, 34. THIRTY FOUR?? That can’t be right. There’s no way there’s a four inch difference. No way. I measure again: 34. Again: 34. I groan. This can’t mean what I think it means. I pull out my “It’s a Girl Thing” book to double check I’m doing this right. Yep, I am, and it’s true: according to these new measurements I should be wearing a 34 D. Ugh.

I’m slightly amused by this fact, since I, in the not so distant past, had a guy tell me that there was NO WAY I was a C. Like, who gives these guys this boob-size-vision? Why would they think it’s accurate, and why would they argue with me about it when I’m the one trying, buying, and wearing the dumb things. Honestly. Despite this amusement, beneath it lays slight desperation. Let’s face things, if I’m carrying a 34D on my chest at 20, when, by all rights, things should be at their perkiest and firmest, then what on earth am I going to be carrying around when I’m 30, or 40 and have had children???

I see a future of breast reduction surgery.

Renovations

As you've noticed, I've started renovating my blog (because I just didn't have enough projects on the go, har har). Let me know what you think or if you have any suggestions!

Monkeys

This morning I took over the daycare for Mum. I took the kids to the park for a play in the sand and some time on the swings, and then home again for lunch. While I was making lunch (whole wheat mac n cheese with peas & carrots on the side) two of the older boys, George and Darcy, were playing hockey in the kitchen, as they often do, when Darcy stops short, almost tripping George, and says to me, "Hey, you got a monkey on your shirt!"
I look down, and darned if I'm not wearing my one and only Curious George shirt.
George: "It's Curious George!"
Darcy: "Yeah, but where's the Man in the Yellow Hat?"
Me: "He's not on this shirt, just Curious George."
Darcy: "Oh." He looks a little let down by this. George, seeing his good buddy upset, quickly intervenes.
George: "Maybe the Man in the Yellow Hat has his own shirt, just for him."
Darcy: "Yeah maybe. What's that?" This while gesturing to the yellow splotch being held by the monkey on my shirt. A yellow splotch that hitherto I had not noticed. Let's face things, I got dressed while half asleep and until this moment wasn't truly aware that I was wearing a shirt at all, much less one with Curious George cuddling a small yellow splotch. I drop down to their level and close inspection begins.
George: "I think maybe it's a banana."
Darcy: "Monkeys like bananas."
Arthur (from the other room): "I HATE BANANAS."
Darcy: (to Arthur) "I wasn't talking to only you."
George: "Yeah, we was talking about Haley's shirt."
Both George and Darcy resume their unfailing stare at the monkey on my shirt.
George: "I like Curious George."
Darcy: "Yeah, I like him in the books, and on the shirts."
George: "Do you think maybe he's looking for the Man in the Yellow Hat?"
Darcy: "Yeah, that's why he's sitting up in those vines."
Sure enough, Curious George is perched in a hammock of vines that are suspended across my chest. Wait a second here. It is about at this point that I realize that the two small boys have now been staring at and occasionally patting Curious George, and therefore my chest. Although it's all incredibly innocent, I begin to chuckle to myself at the situation. Let's all sit on the floor around Haley and pat her breasts and discuss monkeys. bwahahahaha. Darcy and George pause and give me an odd look as I chuckle to myself, and then resume playing hockey.
George: Hey Darcy, I'll be The Man in the Yellow Hat, and you be Curious George!
Darcy: But monkeys can't play hockey! They only eat bananas!
Arthur (from the other room): I HATE BANANAS!
George and Darcy: WE KNOW!!!

More Plastic Bags

And only a few hours after the last plastic bag photo shoot, Rumble decided to get in yet another plastic bag. He was lying right down and napping, but he got up when he saw the camera coming.
Not to be out done, Malika in a brand new garbage can.
Okay, so putting her in the can was my idea, but what a cute picture it would have made if she hadn't jumped out immediately, knocking the can over with a crash and scaring the bejezus out of Rumble who took off running, his head still stuck through the handle of the plastic bag. The bag chased him around the house in his frantic run for his little life while I sat helpless on the kitchen floor paralyzed by laughter. He was rescued by Grampa on his second lap through the kitchen where he was freed from the bag.

Plastic Bags

What is it about cats and plastic bags?

What's Out Your Window?

Everybody needs to meet Malika. This is Jackie's cat who is staying with us while Jackie is gallivanting all over Russia. That's right, I said gallivanting. Okay, so maybe not gallivanting. Maybe something more like consistently working in one stable, unmoving location. Still, she's in Russia, therefore Malika has been adopted into our home where she is known as New Cat, Paprika, Petunia, Penelope, Beast, and Weird Cat, depending on the speaker and the mood and time. She is well loved, whatever we call her.
Rumble (aka: Bumble, Rumble-Butt, Rumble-Bug, Rambo, Buddy) certainly loves her. Look! They're even into the same things!

Window cats. We had one at the south window and one at the north, both staring intently. "Hey, what's out your window?"

Rescue Adventure

About a week or so ago, Rumble came running into the house and dropped something on the kitchen floor...a baby chickadee.
Isn't he TINY? His eyes weren't even open. It was unharmed - Rumble was apparently just proud that he'd caught it - but Grampa and I couldn't find the nest, and in all likelihood the parents would reject it since it now smelt like cat and human. What would we do?

We created a little nest for him, and then I got on the phone. The humane society forwarded me to the wild bird sanctuary, who told me that they could take him if I brought him in. Grampa and I go out the door, taking little bird with us, and go to the sanctuary where he is handed over to the girl behind the desk.
"You've had a rough day, haven't you?" she says to the little bird. He responds instantly with a tiny chirp, the first noise he's made since his rescue. Poor tiny guy.